An angry poem, considering that we're destroying the planet

A poem!

I've created this blog to be a space for me to dump any and all possible ideas I may have for short stories, poems/prose, chaptered/longer stories, essays-basically anything I may want to write.

The best-case scenario for me is that I have a place to get feedback on ideas for writing, so I would be so extremely grateful if you guys could help me out by just following along and letting me know what you would like to see/read and what you wouldn't read.

I intend for this to be very casual and laid-back, and very preliminary to all of my writing, so please please please don't be afraid to offer criticism or tell me that an idea sucks. I'm looking for any and all feedback you may have.

Thanks so much!

I saw down next to her and smiled, and she beamed,

Upon asking what was in the book, she said,

“It’s just thoughts...people."

“I'm afraid I may forget about them."

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A collection of some people that I've come to love, to befriend, to regret, to leave behind, and to let in.

A simple thought-dump on a quiet night. (aka: I love to watch the sky)

This is just a poem about dissociation and anxiety.

just a poem drop

It's my mom's birthday. A poem about heroes.

This is a short, single chaptered story about a young girl's life throughout an abusive relationship. It focuses less on the abuse, and more about how it all began and the results of what happened to her. (Side note, I have only roughly created and edited this, so it's likely that things will change in the future.)

A poem about a friend who was once so close, and how I let her in and gave her my everything, and she stole my loyalty and love before moving on to the next person. Basically an abusive friendship.

A poem written about wanting be be surrounded by people but being socially awkward and anxious when you're surrounded by people.

A poem I wrote for my best friend, who of course, will never see it. Anyways, it's about how I'm there for her and she's there for me, and how I love her no matter what happens.

It's an elaborate and taboo practice, buying favors from witches. When Magdalene, who does not want any children, offers her first born to a witch in return for her present family's health, she must find a way to have a baby. However, things may get complicated when her child's father has made a deal with a different witch, creating a stand-off battle for the child. What really adds to the glamour of the situation, piling up int he back of her mind, is that Magdalene begins to doubt whether she wants to relinquish her child at all.

This is a story about my perception of myself and my past, of how people have shaped me, of how I have shaped people, and of places that I can leave but never truly forget. (I posted this on a contest on this site, but I'm very proud of it so I'm posting it by myself too)

My recollection of the first time a man that was older and larger than me tried to follow me and my friends home. It haunts me that girls everywhere must live in such fear, as I have. I know I've posted this elsewhere, but I like it so I'm posting it again, so whatever.

Every now and then I write down a sentence that just sounds better than most of my other sentences - something that really speaks to people or that just sounds amazing!

I thought I'd make use of the quote thingy on the website and start a collection, and I figured this would be a great chance to share some inspiring words with other collaborators.

Feel free to send a request if you want to join.

This poem is to the other loved-ones, from someone who has spent a lot of time in the hospital over the course of the last few months, and who has experienced enough loss, to forget what I once had.

The loved-ones who have loved and lost, who have toiled and won, who have guided and guilted, who have done all that they could and all within their power, whether or not it was enough.

Kidnapped at age 11, kept out of reach from the world for 14 years, Ruth finds herself completely broken and confused upon her liberation from captivity. Her previous optimism and curiosity is lost as she realizes that the real world has no room for that kind of naivete. She closes herself off, and becomes more irritable and introverted over time, and less sensitive. Ruth is determined to never let anyone hurt her again, even if that means hurting those around her. What started as the lifetime of a young girl with a smile that brought joy to the broken ends with a chaotic shell of what used to be a beautiful person. As the old cliche goes, you either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

Fiona is sixteen when her best friend and role model, Kyeira, dies in childbirth. She lives in isolation for weeks before her therapist advises her to explore her individual past, Kyiera's past, and their combined past together. Upon rifling through some of Kyiera's old things, Fiona finds that she was a writer, an artist, and completely caught with adventure and discovery. With Kyiera's journal entries, photographs, and ramblings, Fiona pieces together her life and her view of the world. She lives her life with the help of Kyeira, who now lives on in the margins of her writings.

Returning from the war seemed to be the only thing Ray could think of while she had been on the battlefield. It was hell, and it seemed like she and her lost friends (both lost physically and mentally) were completely insignificant in the war. However, she finds that life as a recovering veteran is a whole other battlefield.

This is an old poem I looked at and revised. It's pretty much just me criticising how people only care about a person once they're gone. It's me criticising how people will take advantage of a tragedy to make sure that they raise their own social status and how people view them. It makes me sick how people are only willing to care once it is impossible for their caring to actually need to be genuine or helpful in any way.

Basically an amalgamation of everything I ever needed to say to someone, but was unable to say because my words don't come out. Things I can never tell people, things I wish people knew, things they will never know. The letters I'll never write, nothing more, really.

Friendship is supposed to feel like home. Friendship is comfortable and warm and often times life-saving. You think people wouldn't need you. You think that you've been used up and it's all over for you. Just remember that you're someone's reason to wake up in the morning. You're someone's home, and losing your home sucks.(Trigger warnings for self-harm, mentions of suicide, and bullying.)

A poem about insomnia, depression, and the defeat of such things. It's a little bit pretentious and a little bit angsty, but it's positive and focuses on recovery.

A short poem written about finally being at ease in nature. A poem about recovery.

Another poem I wrote. This one is very short, but it came to me randomly and I just wanted to get it down somewhere. I may revise it or lengthen it later.

I don't write as a crutch, It's more of an itch. I write to remember, to construct, to feel, to belong, to contribute, to create. I write to make a freaking difference. In the end, that's what it comes down to.

A poem that is directed towards one of my friends who attempted to take her life a short while ago. She doesn't see a reason to live. It came a shock to me, as she is literally my little beacon of hope in my dark and crippling bouts of depression and self-doubt. She keeps me alive, and I can't understand why she wants to go. That's basically this poem. This poem is everything I wish I could say.

I was young when it all happened. I was happy, and I was free, and I was so full of life. I look back and feel for that joyful sensation of my lungs not being able to take in enough air, even though my rib-cages were close to bursting with excitement. I look back to a time of such joy. More specifically, I look back to a time before Norah. Norah didn't ask for much, not technically. Norah simply wanted to play; Norah still wants to play. But now I know the truth, and I don't want to play anymore.

You don't go into the streets late at night. Not by yourself. How foolish, how mad, how utterly incompetent of I to forget this? This one little rule put in place to keep me safe from whatever lurks beyond what I would see in the daytime, and I throw it all away to simply forget?

Simply put, a poem about the often overlooked qualities of fictitious writings.

Chris is a 17 year old girl who wakes up every morning to a bowl of her favorite cereal, the cheery birds chirping outside on her windowsill, and the plaguing memory of her father's suicide. The lingering voices in her head wont let her block out the memories anymore, as she slowly unravels that fateful day that binds her mind. She struggles to be heard as she begins to come to terms with the fact that her father could not, would not, and did notkill himself. As this fact lifts a weight off of her shoulders, it also poses a dangerous question. If Chris' father did not kill himself, then who, or what,did?